


The Eviction Evasion

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Misses [5]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 15:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17942585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten





	The Eviction Evasion

Strike came in through the main door to the office just as Robin was filling the kettle.

“That was good timing,” she said, smiling across at him as she set the kettle on its cradle and pressed the switch to start it boiling. “Tea?”

Strike nodded. “Tea would be most welcome, thank you,” he said. He sounded tired. Robin glanced across at him again. There were deep grooves etched down either side of his mouth, always a sure sign he was in pain, and she could see he was trying to hide a pronounced limp as he moved through to his office to hang up his jacket. She heard him toss keys and cigarettes onto his desk, and then he made his way back through to the kitchenette.

Robin bent to remove the milk from the fridge, the kettle chuntering above her. She opened the little freezer compartment, pulled out an ice pack and slammed the little door firmly to close it. She set the milk by the mugs, wrapped the ice pack in a tea towel and passed it to him without comment.

Strike hesitated just a moment, then took it from her.

“Thanks,” he muttered gruffly, and she could hear that he was both annoyed that she’d witnessed his pain and touched that she’d noticed. He moved slowly to the sofa and lowered himself onto it, holding the pack against the inside of his knee. Robin carefully kept her back to him so that she wouldn’t witness any further displays of pain that he might rather hide.

The kettle clicked off and she poured hot water onto tea bags.

“Ritchie Rich’s wife called while you were out,” she said over her shoulder.

Strike, grateful to have no mention made of his leg, looked up. “What did she want?”

“Apparently he’s been in the gossip columns again today. I went out and grabbed a paper earlier.” She waved at it sat on her desk. “He was photographed coming out of that fancy club he was at last week again, this time with Casey Jones, that new model who’s just signed for the big Dolce & Gabbana shoot.”

Strike just looked at her. “Who?”

Robin threw him a grin and carried on fishing tea bags out of mugs. “I do try to keep you apprised of celebrity gossip,” she said. “She’s the next Kate Moss, apparently, although that label gets chucked about a lot. The point is, she can’t be more than about seventeen. Eighteen at the most. Whereas he’s pushing forty.” She poured milk into their mugs and put the carton back in the fridge.

Strike gave her a mock glare. “There is nothing wrong with pushing forty,” he said haughtily, and Robin chuckled. “I didn’t say there was,” she said. “But I don’t see you chasing seventeen-year-old girls.”

Strike sat back as she passed him his tea. “Thanks,” he said gratefully. “Girl I went out briefly with at school had a kid while we were all at uni, I remember Ilsa telling me,” he mused. “That’s eighteen years ago.” He shuddered. “He’s literally old enough to be her father.”

“Exactly,” Robin said. “And it’s not just the gap. Like if they were thirty and fifty, that wouldn’t seem so bad. But seventeen and, what, thirty-eight... It’s icky.” She moved to her desk and sat down on her chair, cradling her mug in her hands.

Strike nodded. “My oldest nephew must be nearly thirteen,” he said. “Barely four years younger.”

He shook his head. “So anyway, what does she want?” The ice on his leg and the welcome cup of tea in his hands were dispelling his pain and the bad temper that had gone with it. He found himself gazing fondly Robin as she outlined the plan of action she had agreed with Ritchie Rich’s wife to try and ascertain whether her husband really did have a stake in the modelling agency or just enjoyed parading beautiful young women around in the press. Robin never judged, never nagged him about his weight or his punishing schedule that regularly had him in pain. She just quietly passed him ice packs and took on more of the walking jobs and never fussed over him. He wished he could find a way to tell her he appreciated it. But never mentioning it was the part he valued the most.

He realised she’d stopped talking.

“Good plan,” he said, briskly, to cover up for the fact that he hadn’t entirely been listening. “What do you need me to do?”

“Not much, unless you can get me in somehow.” Robin turned to face her monitor to hide the slight colour on her cheeks as she asked, “Don’t suppose you’re still in touch with Ciara Porter?” As far as she knew, Strike was single, and she tried not to pry.

Strike shook his head. “Not seen her since...well, the Lula Landry case,” he said. “I don’t see her about any more, either, in ad campaigns and so on.”

“No, rumour has it she stopped modelling and went to uni,” Robin replied.

“Oh, yeah, she did mention she had a deferred place,” Strike mused. “But anyway, not a lead that could get us on the inside.”

“Shame,” Robin said. “I’ll have to see if I can blag my way in, pretend I’m a famous make-up artist or something. I’ll work on it.”

Companionable quiet fell over the little office. Strike drank his tea and supposed he ought to go back to his desk. He didn’t relish the idea of getting up again. His leg hadn’t hurt this much in some time. But he couldn’t just sit here.

With a louder sigh than he realised, he manoeuvred himself forward to start to stand. Without appearing to move quickly, Robin moved around to his side and took his mug. She turned away, squashing down her instinct to offer help that she knew he didn’t want. A light touch on her arm stopped her.

“Wouldn’t give me a hand, would you?” Strike asked quietly.

Robin’s heart fluttered but she gave no outward sign. “Sure,” she said lightly, planting her feet and offering an arm. Strike took her elbow with his right hand, his left braced on the arm of the sofa, and hauled himself upright. Suddenly he was very close. She could feel the heat radiating from him, smell his aftershave.

“Thanks,” he muttered, not quite looking at her. Robin stepped back, trembling a little. “Any time,” she said, moving away to put the mugs in the sink. She plonked them down and turned back to see him standing where she’d left him, holding the ice pack, watching her.

She hesitated, her heart jumping again. “What?”

Strike shook his head, but he smiled at her softly, fondly. “Nothing,” he said. “Thanks for the tea.” He turned and made his way slowly and painfully towards his desk.

Robin nodded. “Any time,” she murmured again, and he was gone though to his office, the door swinging half closed behind him.

Robin stood for a minute, frozen, her arm tingling where he’d held onto her. What had just happened? She was deeply touched that he’d finally trusted her enough to ask for help, to let her in. But was it more than that? Being so close to him, touching him, always brought back hints of memories, of hugs, of an almost-kiss. And the way he had looked at her...

She stood, her heart rate increasing, taking deep breaths. _Enough of this dance._ She gathered up her courage and walked through to his office, not even sure what she was going to say, only knowing that somehow it was time, they were ready.

“Cormoran—”

Robin stopped. Strike was staring in dismay at his monitor. Her heart plummeted. “What is it?”

“Landlord,” he said succinctly. “The deal with the developers is done. We have to be out by the end of next month. In six weeks.”

Robin gasped. “Six weeks? That’s—”

“—fuck all time to relocate a business,” Strike said grimly. “I had no idea it would happen this fast, I haven’t even looked for likely office space yet. And we’ll never find anywhere as cheap. Fuck it all.”

Robin took a deep breath. Not much point panicking. “We need a plan of action,” she said. “First things first, make a wish list of where we ideally want the new office to be and what we want from it. Then I’ll start hunting.”

Realisation hit her suddenly and her hand flew to her mouth. “Cormoran, your flat...”

He nodded. “Homeless again,” he said with a dark attempt at humour. “That’s less of a worry, I can always stay at Ilsa and Nick’s again or, heaven forbid, sleep in the office. Let’s just find somewhere to work.”

“I’ll get my notepad,” Robin said. “I can start ringing places this afternoon.” She hurried back to her desk for it, and flicked the switch on the kettle back on as she passed. It was going to be a busy afternoon.

 


End file.
